They seem to be nibbling at the flowers, and then flying away something like bees gathering honey.

_Butterflies_ don't gather honey, cuckoo ?" "No," said the cuckoo.

"They are filling their paint-boxes." "What _do_ you mean ?" said Griselda.
"Come and see," said the cuckoo.
He flew quietly along in front of her, leading the way through the prettiest paths in all the pretty garden.

The paths were arranged in different colours, as it were; that is to say, the flowers growing along their sides were not all "mixty-maxty," but one shade after another in regular order--from the palest blush pink to the very deepest damask crimson; then, again, from the soft greenish blue of the small grass forget-me-not to the rich warm tinge of the brilliant cornflower.
_Every_ tint was there; shades, to which, though not exactly strange to her, Griselda could yet have given no name, for the daisy dew, you see, had sharpened her eyes to observe delicate variations of colour, as she had never done before.
"How beautifully the flowers are planned," she said to the cuckoo.

"Is it just to look pretty, or why ?" "It saves time," replied the cuckoo.